A Scot in the Dark (Scandal & Scoundrel #2)(86)

“You know,” she sighed, the words nearly a whine.

“I do,” he said, as though they had all the time in the world. “But I wish you to command me, love. I wish you to be my goddess. And I, your servant. I wish you to know your beauty. Your pride. Your perfection. I wish to honor it. With every part of me.”

His words set her aflame.

It did not matter that they were mad.

She looked to him, desperate for his mouth once more. “Then do so.”

He raised a brow in question. “Say it.” He licked her again, and she went tight as a bow. “Honor me, Alec.”

The words flooded her with pleasure. “Honor me, Alec.”

“Worship me, Alec.”

She closed her eyes. “Worship me, Alec.”

“Kiss me, Alec.”

“Kiss me, Alec.”

And he did, driving her wild, making love to her with slow, savoring strokes, his hands lifting her to him like a feast. She pressed her hips to him, continuing the litany, repeating it again and again, until she found the precipice once more, and this time he did not stop, not even as she tumbled over the edge, his hands and mouth and tongue the only discernible thing in the riot of pleasure.

And as she clutched him and cried out the commands he had given her, she added another. “Love me, Alec.”

Love me.

And he did. In that moment, even if it never happened again, he loved her. She knew it.

As she came down from her pleasure, she reached for him, pulling him to her, aching for more of him, for all of him. He came to her, climbing up over her, the bed—at once too small and also perfectly sized because it kept him close enough to touch—creaking at the movement, as he pushed her back and leaned down, pressing warm, wonderful kisses to her jaw to her ear.

Her hand reached for the hem of his kilt, finding warm, muscled skin there, beneath the wool. She stroked up his long, muscled thigh, higher and higher, finding only warm bare skin. She could not hide her shock. “You wear nothing beneath.”

He lifted his head, meeting her gaze. “Nae.”

“Sesily wondered.”

He kissed her deep. “Sesily can find her own Scot to make the discovery. I am claimed.”

Hers.

The words emboldened her, and she tracked the bare skin to the front of him, to where he strained for her, hard and hot and—

He hissed his pleasure at her touch. “Lily.”

“You are magnificent,” she whispered.

“I am too big. A beast.”

She stroked him, long and lush. “You are too perfect. A man.”

He closed his eyes and put his forehead to hers. “Thank you.”

There was something in the words. An ache she did not like. A doubt she did not wish. She stilled. “Alec?”

He shook his head. “Do not stop. Christ, Lily. Do not stop.”

She did not, stroking again and again, reveling in the size and strength of him. “There is a small thing I should like to discuss.”

He hissed a laugh. “The word small is a bit unsettling when you are just there, lass.”

She stroked him, long and loving, until he groaned his pleasure, the sound sending a similar feeling through her. “I like that,” she whispered.

“I assure you, not half as much as I like it.” He stilled, then kissed her, stealing thought for a moment. “What is it you would like to discuss?”

She had difficulty recalling. “You remain clothed.”

His gaze found hers. “And?”

It was her turn to kiss, to caress, to steal breath and thought. And, finally, to whisper, “And I will you . . . not clothed.”

He closed his eyes. “I think I should not—”

“Are you mine?” she whispered. “Truly?”

They flew open. “Forever.”

The word opened her up. Brought the light in. “Then prove it, Alec. Honor me. Worship me. Kiss me.” This time, she stopped at the last.

He did not. “Love me,” he whispered.

And she told the truth. “I do.”

He closed his eyes again, and she saw the pain flash over his features, as though the words had been a curse instead of a gift. Doubt flared deep inside her. “I am sorry,” she whispered, summoning his gaze to her with her own fear. “I cannot stop the truth. I love you.”

He did not reply except to move, giving her precisely what she wanted. He stood up, shed his clothes, revealing his magnificence, the hard expanse of his chest and the tight, rippling muscles of his stomach, ending in a remarkable cut of flesh above his hips, angling down to the part of him that appeared to ache for her as much as she ached for him.

He returned to her, the bed creaking beneath his weight as she reached for him, her legs opening as he moved between them, coming down over her, his arms holding his weight off her, his size protecting her. “Never apologize for that. I shall treasure it. Forever. Even when you discover how unworthy I am of it.”

Her brow furrowed, but she was unable to ask him to explain it, because he was kissing her, stroking her, guiding her, protecting her. He slid into her in a perfect, glorious movement, making her sigh and gasp and cling to him as he moved in a perfect rhythm, watching her responses, finding the places she most desired him, giving her everything she wanted, and eventually—once he found their rhythm—rocking against her, pressing and rolling and driving her higher and higher, until she was crying his name and clinging to him, begging him with words she should never have used.